


you bleed just to know you're alive

by whenshewrites



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Geralt Deserves Nice Things, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a Nice Thing, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, dammit, let them be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: Geralt has scars; Jaskier teaches him to love them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 417





	you bleed just to know you're alive

There was a story behind each of Geralt’s scars.

Some of them were from monsters and some of them were from men. Geralt found that usually, the line blurred between the two, so when he was asked, he just grunted in answer. 

And he was always asked. People always wanted to know how the great and feared witcher got his scars.

It was a source of entertainment for them. Seeing the mighty witcher brought low. Geralt used to see his scars as proof that he was part human— he could be hurt too. But people just saw it as proof that he wasn’t invincible. There was a difference, Geralt thought. Between being human and being vulnerable. One placed him alongside the rest and the other was a man who people want to test their steel against.

Everyone wanted to see his scars and everyone wanted to know if they could add their own. Everyone except Jaskier; the fucking bard.

Geralt wasn’t sure when he came to this realization. At some point between the first time Jaskier saw him bathe and the last time the bard had helped dress his wounds after a fight, Geralt had realized Jaskier was different than most people.

Sometimes, around Jaskier, Geralt could forget they were even there.

Geralt thought he sung about them, though. Little things that Jaskier thought he might not notice, perhaps. Like the way the bard gave them each their own story and instead of being trophies or tragedies that Geralt was expected to be proud of, they were… a pillar of who he was. They were part of him. Geralt wasn’t monstrous or terrifying for carrying them around, but human. Mortal.

Geralt never thought he would want to be mortal again.

It’s not like he remembers a time when he was. The years tended to blur together when someone lived as long as he had. Twenty years became fifty, fifty years became a hundred. And Geralt forgot what it was like to live as a man, not a monster.

Jaskier was different. Jaskier made him remember.

Geralt sat on the floor in front of the fire, running a whetstone over his blades as Jaskier sat on the bed, strumming the chords of his lute. The bard was trying to write a new song; something about the Bruxa that Geralt had faced a week ago. Geralt didn’t think it was very song worthy; he’d nearly died. He should’ve known better than to underestimate a starving vampire. 

“What about her claws, Geralt?” Jaskier asked after a moment. “Sharp? Like silver! Or maybe knives. Or daggers. What sounds better?”

Geralt only grunted. Jaskier sighed and set aside his lute, plodding over. He dropped down at Geralt’s side and gave him a sideways look, studying the gleaming blade in his hands.

“Does silver hurt witchers too?”

“It’s a blade,” Geralt said. “It would hurt a man. It would hurt a witcher.”

Jaskier hummed and reached for Geralt’s other sword. Geralt was tempted to snatch it back away; for some reason, all he could see was Jaskier cutting his hand open or doing something stupid and getting himself stabbed. But he forced himself to smother that reaction and ground his teeth together, rubbing the whetstone harder over his second blade.

“They’re very shiny,” Jaskier said. 

“That’s what I cherish the most,” Geralt deadpanned. “How shiny they are.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and huffed, setting it back down. Linking his fingers behind his head, he laid back and watched the fire, sighing slightly. “I meant you take good care of them, witcher. Your blades.”

“Hm.”

“Have you named them? I’d name them. Des and troy. Get it? Destroy?”

Geralt swallowed a laugh. “You’re an idiot, bard.”

“What? What would you name them? Probably something stupid. If Roach is a horse, then would a sword be Rat? Llama? Potato?”

Geralt gave him an unimpressed look. “Don’t talk about Roach.”

“Ah, right,” Jaskier said, snorting. “The wrath of the gods might come down and smite me if I do so. Goddess save the man who ever insults Roach to your face. Or the thief who tries to steal her. My gods, I’d actually feel sorry for them.”

“They wouldn’t be alive long enough for you to feel sorry for them,” Geralt said. Jaskier chuckled.

“Fair enough, witcher, fair enough.”

Geralt glanced over at the bard— and pushed the whetstone down too hard, his hand slipping and nicking along the edge of the blade. Cursing, Geralt yanked his hand back and glared down at the sword. Jaskier sat straight up, blue eyes wide.

“Geralt? What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing,” Geralt said, watching blood drip to the floor. “Fuck.”

“Oh my gods,” Jaskier said, pushing himself up. “Since when are you so clumsy, witcher? How deep is it? Do you need stitches?”

“I’m fine,” Geralt said, but Jaskier ignored him. 

There was a ripping sound as Jaskier tore a strip from one of the blankets on the beds and Geralt just knew they would be paying extra for that later. The bard came back with a bucket of water and the cloth and Geralt rolled his eyes, giving Jaskier a flat look as he sat back down.

“I’m fine, bard.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier said, waving a hand through the air. “You’re also dripping blood all over the floor. Let me clean you up.”

Geralt sighed, but set down his sword and held out his hands. Jaskier crossed his legs and took his hand, dipping the cloth into the water. Geralt hissed quietly as the bard touched it against the open cut. Jaskier wrinkled his nose.

“Gods, Geralt, how sharp are your blades?”

“Sharp enough,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier sighed and peered down at the wound.

“It could be deeper, I suppose. Is your head somewhere else tonight, witcher? You’d think I’d be the one to accidentally cut myself open, not the other way around.”

Geralt just grunted again, his face turning a little warm. He’d only looked away for one second.

“I don’t think it will scar,” Jaskier said. “It didn’t go deep enough.”

The bard wrung out and tied the damp cloth around Geralt’s palm, and he pulled his hand away. Jaskier chuckled to himself. 

“If it does scar though, that would be quite the embarrassing story, wouldn’t it? The great White Wolf of Rivia, fallen victim to his own blade. I could write a song about that, but it might ruin your reputation, Geralt.”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier’s smile slipped and he studied his face.

“Geralt? Surely you know I would never do anything like that, of course. Are you sure your head isn’t somewhere else tonight?”

“I’m just tired,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push any further either.

Geralt was thankful for that.

* * *

Geralt was sent after a couple of drowned this week. It’d been a while since he’d gotten a simple job, so he didn’t mind that it didn’t pay very much. It wasn’t like he and Jaskier were hurting for coin. Sometimes, the bard and his singing made twice as much in one night that Geralt did over a couple of days.

Except it wasn’t a bunch of drowned waiting for him.

Geralt had faced an ambush before. This time, he heard the human heartbeats before he saw his attackers and might’ve been a lot worse off if he hadn’t been prepared. As it was, there were a dozen men against one. Geralt cut them all down with the words  _ ‘the Butcher of Blaviken’  _ ringing through his ears and got distracted when he heard a distant voice screaming his name.

Jaskier came out of the trees where Geralt had left him and Geralt cursed as his throat tightened. He started toward the bard; and a dagger cut straight through his back. Roaring, Geralt dropped to his knees. He tried to turn but a blow to the face sent him sprawling to the floor. 

He heard Jaskier shout his name again and then someone was moving past him, the fading light glimmering off a blade.  _ His blade,  _ Geralt realized. There was a savage cry and then a roar of pain and the sound of a body hitting the dirt.

Geralt forced himself up, terrified of what he might see. But Jaskier standing over a body with a bloodstained sword wasn’t what he had expected. Geralt blinked, then took a step forward, only to stumble to his knees again. Jaskier dropped his sword into the dirt and rushed forward.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, fingers hovering over the wound. “Gods, Geralt, what can I do? Roach. Should I get Roach? We need to head back to town and find the healer—”

“Not the town,” Geralt said. Jaskier blinked at him.

“What?”

“The ambush came from the town,” Geralt said. “Not the town.”

Jaskier looked panicked. Still, he pulled one of Geralt’s arms over his shoulder and grunted as he tried to pick him up. Geralt did what he could do help and they started toward the cover of the trees. There was blood staining through his shirt and his hands were covered in the blood of his attackers.

Geralt didn’t remember the last time that bothered him.

But all he could hear were the words  _ ‘the Butcher’  _ repeating over and over again in his head and all he could remember was the feeling of stones pelting his face and shoulders. He kept seeing Marilka’s face and her words telling him to leave— and what if Jaskier did too? What if he’d finally seen the other side of the witcher?

The one people were so determined to scar.

The bard didn’t give up on him, though. They stumbled past the bodies and into the trees, where Geralt could see Jaskier had left Roach tied to one around one trunk. Jaskier was breathing heavily by the time they reached her and Geralt all but dropped to the forest floor, grunting in pain. He pressed a hand against the wound, feeling warm blood beneath his palm.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, dropping down at his side. “Geralt, I don’t know what to do. What do you need me to do?”

“There’s a needle and string in my pack,” Geralt grunted. “And a bottle of whiskey. Use it to clean the wound and then you’ll need to stitch it up.”

Jaskier’s face visibly paled. “No needles, witcher. I don’t do needles.”

“Fuck, bard,” Geralt ground out. “I can’t do this myself. Unless you want to watch me bleed to death, you’ll need to do it for me.”

Jaskier went through a series of different expressions but in the end, he nodded and pushed himself up. Geralt closed his eyes and focused on breathing steadily as the bard rooted through his pack. The dagger wasn’t long, but it’d sunken to the hilt, and Geralt could feel it buried underneath his shoulder blade. 

Now this— this was going to scar.

Jaskier came back over and made a tutting noise as he surveyed the wound. Gentle fingers touched Geralt’s arm. 

“I need to cut your shirt off, witcher, is that okay?”

Geralt nodded. Jaskier went to work and he couldn’t help but shiver as the cool air touched his skin. Jaskier hummed in apology and Geralt could hear the sound of the whiskey bottle being uncapped. Jaskier hesitated for a moment as his fingers returned to Geralt’s arm.

“A… are you sure, Geralt?”

“Just do it,” Geralt grunted. He could feel Jaskier’s fear and reluctance, but the bard did as he was told.

Geralt hissed as the alcohol touched the skin around his wound. He couldn’t hold it back.

“I am sorry, dear witcher,” Jaskier said softly. Geralt closed his eyes again, more worried about Jaskier handling a needle than him handling a cloth and bottle of alcohol. Still, he didn’t protest when Jaskier pushed the bottle into his hand and an ice-cold needle touched his skin.

He also couldn’t hold back his shout as it pierced through.

Jaskier spent the entire time apologizing and humming nervously under his breath. He started to sing softly when Geralt calmed down and Geralt was surprised to notice that calmed him down even more. By the time he’d nearly finished the bottle, Jaskier was done.

“Okay,” Jaskier said shakily. “There, witcher. I will be having nightmares for the next week or so, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Geralt muttered. Jaskier returned the cloth to his skin, this time wet with some of the water from their flasks. Geralt found himself relaxing under the cool feeling.

“Are they monsters?” Jaskier asked quietly. “The men that do things like this?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier swallowed.

“They are. I think they are.”

“Not many people share your views,” Geralt said. Jaskier’s demeanor changed then; he seemed sad. Geralt didn’t under why he’d seem sad for a witcher.

“They should,” Jaskier said. “No man deserves to be treated this way.”

“I’m not a man.”

For a moment, Jaskier’s ministrations stilled. He removed his hand and moved to situate himself in front of Geralt, brows furrowed. Reluctantly, Geralt looked up at him. But he didn’t see the judgment he expected to. Rather, Jaskier looked sad.

“Oh, Geralt,” he said softly. “That’s not true. Tell me you know that’s not true.”

Geralt dropped his gaze. But then Jaskier cupped his jaw and slowly, he looked back up to see soft blue eyes.

“Tell me, Geralt,” Jaskier said. “Have you ever felt emotion? Have you ever felt fear? You feel pain. What kind of man doesn’t feel pain?"

“It’s going to scar,” is all Geralt said. Jaskier wet his lips.

“It is.”

“Eventually, someone will ask.”

“Then I shall tell them it’s none of their business.”

Geralt didn’t know how to answer that. Jaskier brushed gentle fingers over his cheekbones and traced them up around Geralt’s eyes. If possible, his face softened anymore. 

“You are human in every way that is good, witcher.”

The words ‘human’ and ‘witcher’ didn’t seem fit to be in the same sentence. But leaving Jaskier’s mouth, something about them was  _ right.  _ Jaskier leaned forward and touched his forehead against Geralt’s own. Still, Geralt couldn’t question the words spilling from his mouth; “And all the ways that are not?”

Jaskier sighed. His breaths were warm against Geralt’s face. “We are all vulnerable sometimes, are we not?”

Geralt didn’t think he deserved such an innocent answer. He didn’t think he deserved Jaskier either. But in that moment, it was just the two of them. And Jaskier made him feel different. Mortal.

Geralt never thought he would want to be mortal again.

Unless it was with Jaskier around.

**Author's Note:**

> Still on my geraskier bs. I swear, I'll get better one day. Or not, cause this ship is so precious. Of courses, all the support and comments you guys leave makes my day!
> 
> Come hang with me on Tumblr!  
> [tumblr dumpser](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)


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